


The Garden of Enchantment

by eyeslikerain



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: "the morbid longing for the picturesque", Lyceum, Multi, Post - "Obsessive Minds", Pre-Bacchanal, Pretentious discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 20:24:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10726563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeslikerain/pseuds/eyeslikerain
Summary: Unseen of the others, I noticed an intense glance between Henry and Camilla across the table. The light from the ceiling made Camilla’s hair shine like gold. Her gray eyes rested calmly on Henry. When I looked at him quickly, I saw a strange glow in his eyes, and I suddenly knew: he had seen Camilla in this state. He had brought her there. I swallowed.





	The Garden of Enchantment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taeyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taeyn/gifts).



> For the wonderful Taeyn - for being a constant inspiration, for lovely, enlightening comments, and because it was actually your idea to let Julian guide his students to look beyond the first glance.  
> (I didn't intend to write this, but when I saw there actually was a Waterhouse retrospective in Montreal - even if only in 2009 - I thought: this is "too good to pass up". Somebody has to go there...)  
> 

„Wow, boobs! Let me see!”, Bunny cried, crossing the distance from the door of Julian’s office to the round table in an unusual quick stride.  
“What have you got here?”  
“That’s a catalogue from an exhibition in Montreal.” Francis closed the large glossy tome and showed the title to Bunny: “John William Waterhouse: The Garden of Enchantment”. 

A steady, light rain had been falling all weekend long and was drizzling the windows even now. The trees outside were shrouded in foggy clouds. To ward off the dim morning light, Henry had switched on the large, soft lamp over the round table as well as a small reading lamp on Julians desk. The catalogue rested shiny and promising under the soft illumination.

“Let me see those boobs again.”  
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t come too close as long as you are eating this English muffin”, Francis asked curtly.

We were all standing around the book on the table, now opened to a sumptuous, alluring painting printed over two pages. An ideal young man was bending over a lake in which several naked, large – eyed nymphs lingered seductively.

“As I said, Francis, I don’t understand how you can approve of this dated, rather sentimental interpretation of ancient times. You detest the mock tholos in your aunt’s garden, don’t you? You said to me once you thought those Victorian efforts rather ridiculous.” 

Henry looked at Francis almost accusingly, and I hoped his remark wouldn’t initiate one of their infamous, never-ending discussions.

“I do, I do, but you cannot compare a unique, one-of-a-kind art work to a mass-manufactured plaster pagoda ordered from a catalogue, can you?”

It came as no surprise that Henry abhorred those sensuous, lush paintings. Probably his view of ancient times was completely in black and white, interspersed with an occasional radiant blue of the Ionic sea or the grey – white of some marble temples he might have seen on one of his travels. But deep, luminous jewel tones and rosy cheeks?

“These paintings are Victorian in the worst possible way, all idolized, smooth beauty, unrealistic interpretations of mythology, repressed sexuality in sappy settings.”

“Wait”, Francis and I said at the same time. Sometimes, Henry’s austere, pure views got even me into an aggressive state. We looked at each other heatedly and I went on:

“That’s exactly the point: there is no repressed sexuality, rather the opposite.”

During my last words, Julian had entered the room, his overcoat folded over his arm, and closed the door behind him. “Good morning everyone. As I see, you got a rather interesting start into the day? No repressed sexuality?”, he smiled.

Camilla shot me a bemused smile, Charles snorted. 

 

“Oh, has someone of you been to the Waterhouse retrospective?”

“Richard and I went on Saturday”, Francis replied.

“Is that true? I was there yesterday! Had I known you are interested, we could have had a pleasant outing together! And – did you enjoy it?”

“Very much so, but we just got into an argument with Henry who thinks it’s dated and pretentious to depict Greek gods in Victorian attire.”

“Wait”, Bunny interrupted. “Richard went with you all the way to Montreal? Who paid?”

Thankfully, Julian answered: “Actually, I meant to ask you – I’ve got a memo somewhere here, where is it – some Foundation of the Musée des Beaux Arts is giving out grants to students interested in visiting. As this is the only stop of the exhibition on our continent, they want to enable as many scholars as possible to attend. Here we go – included are two nights in a fine hotel plus travelling expenses and unlimited access to the museum. They ask for a 3000 word essay on the significance of Waterhouse today as well as an oral report on a painting of your choice for the other participants. Edmund, are you interested? I would be glad to write a recommendation.”

Bunny ducked away a little, hands in pockets, and mumbled almost inaudibly: “3000 words to see some naked chicks? Never…”

“So, my two lovers of beauty”, Julian turned to us, “what did you think of the paintings?”

“I am still overwhelmed. They are so much more beautiful in reality. The colours are more luminous and vibrant than I ever expected, and it was just great to step nearer and see how he prepared the way to impressionism, how the tiny strokes blur and get indistinct, but once you step back again, the painting turns back to it’s former complete beauty. In a way, I wouldn’t call him dated or Victorian, he is rather bridging the way to impressionism.”

Julian smiled at me, while Francis added:

“Apart from his masterful craftsmanship and unique position as a late Pre – Raphaelite, we were simply swept away by the sensous impression the pictures left, their sheer beauty. When I closed my eyes that night, I still saw the lush colours, the clear, dark green of a lake, the almost fragrant pink of some roses…”

“Yes, I still saw it on the drive back. Somehow, it’s imprinted on the inside of my eyelids.”

“Oh, I am glad you got such an immediate approach. He seems to have touched all of your senses. But what about Henry’s more critical view you mentioned when I came in? Are we in a position to judge someone because he interprets our ancient gods and heroes in a personal way? Are we to condemn certain ages because their aesthetic approach seems too remote from our own?”

Henry answered slowly: “Gods and heroes are not only active participants in the mortal world, guiding and altering fate, but they are also symbols of certain virtues. I like the carnal, voluptuous Baroque interpretation as little as this overly sensuous one. This is just my personal view.”

“But shouldn’t we be grateful for the ongoing interest in our ancient gods? Despite all revolutions, religious evolution, wars and different beliefs – isn’t it a sign there is a innate truth in the concept?”, Camilla asked him seriously.

 

“That’s a very good point, Camilla. The eternal truth of an idea.“ Julian inclined his head. ”And of course, every era has it’s own way to depict this phenomenon, whatever shape an artist chooses. Let’s see - what could be a contemporary way to illustrate a god?”

“I guess I would go for the abstract. Just colour. Well-chosen colours, of course, but leaving much room for interpretation.”

“Very good, Richard. Anyone else?”

Charles chimed in: “Maybe even an altogether different approach – no painting at all, but something in different dimensions. Like statues. Or even installations in a space. Maybe even including certain light effects. Or – just light?”

“Yes, that would certainly be advanced.”

“Photography?”, Bunny asked.

“Of course”, Julian nodded. “I have been waiting for this. And who would be depicted?”

“Maybe completely normal people. Like you and us.”

Henry winced visibly at the sacrilege of calling Julian “completely normal”.

“As prototypes of gods?”

“Yes, why not?”

“Exactly. And to speak of a related phenomenon sadly characteristic of the modern mind: the decline of our classical heroes to the world of the mundane. There are brands endeavoring to sell a certain good by promising the qualities of immortals. What is more deplorable, Henry – to have idolized, luscious versions of ancient gods or to see them on billboard advertisements on the highway?”

We all chuckled. Julian noticing trends and phenomenons of everyday life in the 20th century was always entertaining.

 

“But to come back to Waterhouse – Francis, Richard, tell us, whom did he depict? More men or women?”

“Clearly women in the majority. There is Hylas, and Narcissus, and Odysseus once. But mainly women.”

“You forgot this wonderful painting, let me see…” Julian turned the pages of the catalogue.”Sleep and his half-brother Death. Hypnos and Thanatos. Do you remember?”

Of course I did, and I hoped nobody would notice that my cheeks turned rather hot. Julian had opened the pages to a somber, serene scene of two boys resting on a bed. The second one seemed rather immobile, leaning at the headrest in obscure, darker colours, whereas the first one glowed in a soft light, leaning a little into his brother and holding a bright red poppy, the symbol of dreams. Francis and I had leafed through the catalogue in bed in the hotel, and upon seeing this painting, he had remarked: “They look like us.” “Only if I put my arm behind your shoulder”, I mused. “Would you like me to?”, I asked in a sudden surge of courage. He nodded and slipped gratefully into my arm. And like Hypnos himself, he fell asleep soon afterwards, exhausted from the three-hour-drive through the rain and the intense visit of the museum. I was stunned, elated, confused and still didn’t know what to make of it. He had slept in my arms all night, but we never had mentioned it.

Julian lingered a little too long for my nervous state over the painting, silently, and exchanged an equally silent gaze with Francis after what seemed like an eternity. Finally and to my grand relief, he turned the pages slowly to reveal a series of paintings of ethereal beauties in flowing dresses, each one more sensous and enraptured than the one before. He stopped at the picture of a woman in what seemed a state of advanced ecstasy: eyes almost closed, rosy lips slightly opened – a picture of extreme beauty and complete abandonment.

 

“Camilla, I would be interested in a female perspective, if you don’t mind. Tell us – do these women represent what we call “Victorian”?

“No, not at all”, Camilla answered in her dark voice. “With Victorian women, I associate stiff clothes, buttoned up until the chin, and restricting corsets. Often they are shown as domestic goddesses – in their carefully decorated, suffocating homes, surrounded by a swarm of children, content with their role as mother and wife. Their moral standard was supposedly as stiff as their clothing. The ladies Waterhouse depicts here seem to be incredibly free. Just look at the loose dresses. And they are very often shown outside, in close contact to nature, which was something the Victorians tried to tame and to enjoy only in civilized settings. And they look so – ” Camilla glanced up at Julian, suddenly unsure how to continue: “If you allow me to say so, these Waterhouse women seem to know how to enjoy themselves. They seem sexually liberated and confident.” 

“Wonderful, Camilla. You mentioned everything I wanted to hear. And now – I have a question for the male eye. When” – he turned the pages slowly, revealing pale, beautiful faces on the verge of ecstasy, until he stopped at an especially alluring one – “when do we see a woman in this state?”

Silence fell onto the room. The soft rain continued to drizzle outside, the book glowed under the lamplight. Bunny shifted uncomfortably on his feet and I was suddenly too embarrassed to stare at the woman in rapture, head thrown back, throat to the stars. I tried to fix my gaze onto the grainy, polished wood of the table next to the book, the small round vase with some of the last yellow dahlias, when Charles broke the silence:

“When she is close to orgasm.”

“Exactly.”

 

I guess I wasn’t the only one almost holding my breath. How had we happened to arrive here, on a Monday morning usually reserved for grammar?

“You see, that brings us back to what we talked about a few weeks ago. You remember the Bacchae? The longing to lose the self which we stated was characteristic for a highly cultured, repressed society like the Romans? The Victorians can be compared to Roman culture in more than one way. Camilla already mentioned moral and bodily constrictions for women, but they were valued for men as well. Unless…” Julian looked up from the book. “Unless we allow ourselves to get a glimpse of freedom, in whatever form it may come. I would say some of these pictures were extraordinary for the time when they were shown, and surely some of the spectators didn’t feel comfortable at all. But seeing women on the cusp of sexual abandonment and enjoyment, even if only as paintings in a gallery, was for many the only way to get an idea of wildness, of liberation, of losing control. Of course, it cannot be compared to a Greek Bacchanal as the important element of the group experience is lacking – but the idea, the desire is the same.”

“To lose the self…”, Charles repeated dreamily, looking out of the window. 

Unseen of the others, I noticed an intense glance between Henry and Camilla across the table. The light from the ceiling made Camilla’s hair shine like gold. Her gray eyes rested calmly on Henry. When I looked at him quickly, I saw a strange glow in his eyes, and I suddenly knew: he had seen Camilla in this state. He had brought her there. I swallowed.

“Yes. To find the old, animal self again. To experience darkness and chaos.”

After clearing his throat, Julian closed the catalogue gently. My mouth was dry and I found it hard to come back to reality. 

“Richard, Francis, thank you for this interesting prelude. Which was very fitting as I wanted to talk to you tomorrow about Plato’s idea of beauty in the “Hippias Major”. Please keep in mind to prepare the text. Charles, would you put on water for tea?”


End file.
